Book 3: The Myth of Closure
by ReverendKilljoy
Summary: Sequel to "Magic Kingdom Come" & "Code 208." JD prepare for a move but events outside their control upset everyone's plans. AU post-"Gaza." Full cast and melancholy action.
1. Tuesday

Omnibus Disclaimer:

Based wholly or partly on characters and situations created by Aaron Sorkin, Thomas Schlamme, John Wells, NBC, Warner Brothers Television Production Inc., and who knows what others. Rated PG13: An unauthorized work of speculative fiction with some adult situations and sexual content, graphic language, brief nudity and mature themes. Parental discretion is advised. Do not distribute for profit or without notification to the author. Not to be taken internally. No user serviceable parts inside. Made in the USA. "I wouldn't stop for red lights." Strongest fan fiction available without a prescription. May cause dizziness, dry mouth or nausea. Do not read my fan fiction while driving, drinking or operating heavy machinery. I'm Reverend Killjoy and I approved this Disclaimer.

_Note: A West Wing AU set some time in Season 5/6. Spoilers for Season 1-5+. Sequel to "Magic Kingdom Come" and "Code 208." Many thanks to the mighty Leslie, to Maggie and Callie, to Jen and Jenni and Jennifer, to Mrs. Gorman, to Caia and slim and katy and even to kursk, thanks for all the support. Review however you want (just avoid the 'update soon'- Like Grandma Ryan used to say, "Get out of the kitchen! It'll be ready when it's ready!")._

_Book Three: The Myth of Closure_

_by ReverendKilljoy_

W.W. -Tuesday

"Donna!"

"Excuse me, Mr. Lyman?"

He stopped, and looked at the young woman at the desk, really looked. He shook his head, smiling sadly. He'd dashed in to grab his last minute paperwork on his way to the airport. House hunting in Orlando awaited, and he was running about ten minutes late so far.

"I'm sorry. Marcie?" She nodded. "Marcie, sorry. Long habit. No offense. Would you make sure that anything else that arrives after today addressed to Miss Moss or to me gets forwarded to Joey Lucas? I really need to get to Dulles and catch my flight."

"We already have that sorted out, Mr. Lyman." She consulted her note cards. "Miss Moss left me detailed instructions. She seemed to think you'd forget, without her here."

He grinned, and looked around to make sure no one was watching. "Well, let's just let everyone think that, okay? If word got out I can actually function without her? Not so good."

"Whatever you say, Mr. Lyman. It was nice working with you today, and you have a good flight." She stuck out her hand.

He took it and flashed a dimpled grin. "Thank you. I'll say hi when I get back. I think they're planning some sort of party when Donna and I are both back in town."

He looked at his watch, and she wondered why the sight of it made him smile so broadly, even though he was running late and would have to hurry for his flight. Every time he looked at his watch, he looked off into the distance for a moment and smiled. She wondered if he even knew he was doing it.

He slung his backpack over his shoulder and walked towards the exit. Always a fast walker, he moved now with an ease and determination that he had not shown before. Gone the rapid tempo and the bulldog air, he walked with a spring in his step and a grin on his face, lost in his own thoughts and happy there.

He was only three minutes behind schedule when he boarded his flight to Orlando.

W.W.

She was thirty-three minutes late before her plane even left the gate. Donna Moss looked at her watch as though willing it to give her a different answer. Thirty-four minutes late.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your Captain speaking. They seem to have resolved the issues that had delayed us at the gate, and we thank you for your patience."

She closed her eyes and sighed. If they didn't hit any more delays, she'd miss dinner but should still have time to unpack and shower before the reception tonight. She realized the captain was still speaking.

"So, once our slot opens in the pattern we'll be taking off for today's non-stop service to New York's JFK airport. We're currently number eleven in line for take off, so just sit back and relax. Thank you."

Eleven? She closed her eyes. She mourned, quietly and profoundly, for the shower she wasn't going to get after the flight. Still, it was her first trip as the head of the new Non-Governmental organization Liaison Advisory Board, or "NOLAB" as Josh had taken to calling it. She hoped she had everything under control.

Her itinerary was relatively simple: fly up to New York and meet a few of her counterparts at the U.N., then the following day off to Israel to meet with NGO leaders in Gaza and the West Bank for three days of meet-and-greet fact-finding. No one expected anything momentous out of the trip, but it was a chance to meet the players, put some faces with names.

Also on the plus side, Andi Wyatt, Toby's ex-wife, was going to be in Gaza on a congressional delegation, or CODEL, along with some people from state and the DOD. Although they were by no means close, Donna thought it might be fun to run into someone she knew and trade stories after a day or so in a new country.

Thinking of Andi, the mother of Toby's twins, also made Donna think about her and Josh's situation. She had no specific reason to think she was pregnant, but they were both waiting with very mixed feelings to see if she missed her next period. She had brought an Early Pregnancy Test kit in her bag, in case she missed. Of course, she'd packed pads and tampons if she didn't. Now she just tried to decide if the nerves and aches and fatigue she was experiencing were PMS, the first hints of pregnancy, or just too much travel and stress with too little sleep.

She reclined her seat the maximum four degrees and pretended to sleep. Whether or not she and Josh were expecting, she decided it was time to start taking better care of her body, starting with getting enough rest. As she dozed, trying to calm her racing mind, her flight moved from eleventh in line for takeoff to tenth.

W.W.

"Are you sure you have my mother's new number?" Andi Wyatt was standing, hands on her hips, and talking very quickly to Toby Ziegler in his West Wing office. "And Molly's antibiotics? Her ear looks better but she still has-"

"Three more days," Toby finished with exasperation. "I know. I have everything under control. As soon as the afternoon briefing is done, I'm picking them up from the daycare at the OEOB and we're going to visit the President and Doctor Bartlet. I assure you that a medical doctor, a Nobel-winning President and one highly motivated and educated father can in fact keep up with a pair of infants until their grandmother comes back from South Carolina tomorrow."

He rubbed his hand nervously over his bare scalp, rubbing the spot over his eyebrow with his thumb. She could tell he was trying so very hard not to shout at her. Despite their inability to live together without making her crazy and sad, Andi still loved and respected Toby very much. She was glad he was going to take the twins for a night before her mother came back to town in the morning.

"Oh, and once you get them down tonight, look in the bottom of the red bag for a Tupperware," she told him finally.

"For?" he asked, grabbing a pen to add to his list. He had one of his ubiquitous notebooks in hand already.

"For you." Andi smiled her lopsided smile, the one that had originally landed him in the first place. "I brought you some pie."

He put down the pen. "Good pie?"

She laughed at the soft intensity of his question. "Cyndi's, blueberry. Picked it up fresh this morning. A reward for getting through the day with the twins, if you make it."

He considered this, and then put his list carefully back into his pocket.

"You are," he said with a straight face and his sad basset-hound eyes sparkling, "not without merit as a friend and partner in raising the twins."

"I'll see you when we get back from the West Bank," she told him, with as close to affection as they permitted themselves. "And stop yelling at Joey Lucas. It doesn't do any good, you know, and it scares the interns. Take care."

"Have a good, you know," he said gruffly. "And don't worry. The kids will be fine."


	2. Wednesday

W.W. –Wednesday

Email, Donna Moss to Josh Lyman:

Dear Josh,

You were right (I know you love hearing that). Any time I want to decry the disorganization of the Democratic Party, all I have to do is think about the night I spent dealing with the United Nations. From my brief meeting with the guys from UNESCO, WHO and the Palestine Mission, I have decided that the UN most closely resembles a French farce performed by Helen Keller. There's a lot of good will and some really good ideas, with no vision, no articulation and no grounding whatsoever.

On the plus side, my trip to Israel does not seem to be going so bad. Leo was able to convince the White House travel office to arrange everything, since we're not really set up yet. I flew Alitalia into Rome, and I'm meeting up with Andi Wyatt's CODEL for the El Al flight to Tel Aviv. From there it's all 4x4s around, I guess, to the West Bank and Gaza.

I met the funniest woman on my flight into Rome. Her name is Kate Harper. She says she knows you, or of you any way. She's going to be taking over as Nancy McNally's aide in a few weeks. You can imagine the stories she must have, right? Anyway, she asked me if I knew what "Alitalia" meant, you know, the Italian airline. She maintains it's an acronym: Always Late In Takeoff, Always Late In Arrival. She was right, but only by about ten minutes. After yesterday it was like being on time. Since we're both going to meet up with Andi and Chairman Fitzwallace, we've decided to sort of hang out on this leg of the trip together.

Well, if I am going to send this before we board the flight to Tel Aviv I better sign off. I will bring you up to date on the rest of my UN meetings later.

Donna

PS- Well, damn. I completely forgot to write about how much I miss you, and how crazy I am to be away from you right now. It's not because you've slipped my mind. More like, I have to really focus on everything else not to spend every second thinking about the fact that in 13 days we're getting married. Plus other things on my mind which I am sure you can guess. Love you, crazy, madly love you. Yours always, D.

W.W.

"Margaret?"

"Yes, Leo?" The tall redhead leaned her head into her boss' office, ready to respond to whatever the latest urgent issue might be.

"I can't find the briefing memo for Judiciary. I was going to go over it with Joey before we head over." Leo was standing, hands on his hips, regarding the neat stacks of memos and papers on his desk.

"I already ran that over to Kenny," she told him. "He said Joey would look at it and be over in time to talk through it before you go."

"You already- Okay then. What about the EPA policy statement on Texas City? I think that Joey will-" He stopped when he saw her expression.

"You already gave that to Kenny to give to Joey?" he fixed his basilisk glare on her, and she blushed. "We're going to have to move your desk next to his or I won't have a piece of paper left in my office, will I?"

"I am sure," she said primly, "that I don't know what you are talking about. If anything, you should be glad that we're working so well together so quickly after Josh and Donna leaving."

"Alright, alright. Just try to knock of that beaming you do when he comes in. It's distracting." He gathered his attaché and prepared to go meet Joey Lucas and her interpreter.

"I do not beam," Margaret corrected him sourly.

"You do beam, Margaret, any time the poor boy enters the room." He leaned against his desk. "Just watch. Tell them to meet me here and I'll take them over."

"Whatever you say, Leo," she beamed, returning to her desk to buzz Kenny Thurman's desk in the DCOS office.

W.W.

Josh Lyman took off his jacket and slung it in the back seat. Even in January, the afternoon on a clear day was warm enough for shirtsleeves. It would take getting used to after Connecticut and DC. He rolled up the sleeves of his blue oxford shirt and frowned at the pale skin of his arms.

"Are you ready, Mr. Lyman?" The young realtor had shown him a number of properties already, but nothing had seemed right. He didn't want another cookie-cutter condo or town house, but he also didn't want a tract house with too much 'character' either. He didn't imagine wither he or Donna would have much time for housework or renovation, and his own experiences with yard work were all 25 years in the past.

"Sure." He looked at the property, a long, narrow lot with the house set far back. Not too much to mow or whatever, surely there were neighborhood kids who still did that stuff.

The house itself was frankly odd looking. What had originally been a sort of shotgun ranch house had been modified with a huge sunroom, enclosed, almost half again as big as the house proper. An office suite had been added as a second story over the garage, and the whole thing had a curious mixture of brick and two kinds of siding.

Inside the house was a mad pastiche of decorating styles. Cream-colored Berber carpets, very nice, lead to a cracked tile kitchen floor, and honest-to-god '70s-vintage Astroturf in one room that had been open to the outside before the sunroom was added. Every room seemed to have a different paint color, except for the olive drab trim which did not so much unite the design as frame each new horror.

The realtor stood next to Josh, head hanging and expression apologetic.

"I'm sorry to show you this property, but I promised another agent I'd at least bring you buy. His father owned it before his death."

"The colors finally killed him?" Josh stared, in awe of the riot of design in the house. "I'm sorry, no disrespect, but…" Words failed him.

"I understand," she said. "Here is the property sheet if you want it."

He took it, and first noted the price. The unique nature of the property was not lost on the seller, and it was very aggressively priced. The square footage was impressive, and as part of a recent repair the water heater and heat pump had both been replaced with virtually state of the art new units. Josh thought for a moment about the house, and it's space and layout, stripping away the colors and patterns for a moment and try to see it as a structure.

Large kitchen, room to hang out and read the paper, or put in some book shelves. People like Josh and Donna accumulated books at an alarming rate, and were always skimming off the least important for storage or resale. Josh had books in a storage locker at his condo he hadn't seen since law school, and he knew Donna still had cartons of books she'd moved to DC with under her coffee table in her apartment.

The sunroom was amazing. All it needed was a coat of strong white paint on the currently teal wall. Maybe the little Astroturf room, which opened off the master bedroom, would make a good library, or a nursery, whichever proved to be needed. The skylight there let in some amazing light.

Josh realized he was redecorating his new house. Their new house. He really should consult with Donna, or at least his mom. Someone should see this and tell him if he thought paint and some new flooring would fix this weird assembly of rooms and spaces, but in his mind's eye he saw it, saw it like the potential in the right candidate, like the loophole in a Republican tax plan.

He turned to the realtor and said with a grin, "We'll take it."

W.W.

"Toby! Toby Ziegler!"

C.J. stood, hands on her hips, regarding her colleague and friend.

"Yeah?" His expression was wary, his face showing fatigue and strength and all the things she loved about him, masked over with a wash of stress.

"You told Greg Millovich to jump in a lake? In front of the press?" Her tone indicated this was a poor decision.

"No."

"No?"

"No," he said thoughtfully. "I believe my precise words were that he should fill his pockets with rocks and try to walk across the Potomac, were my precise words, before I would consider his advice on Childcare tax credits."

"You blew off Greg Millovich?" She was shaking her head incredulously.

"The man, C.J., is a hack! He was a hack when he worked for Calhoun, and he was a hack when he worked with the RNC, and he's a hack now. So excuse me, if I don't see the problem here."

"He doesn't work for the RNC any more, Toby. We talked about it at the briefing this morning, and at the Senior Staff you were late to."

"Huck had a fever," Toby said warily. "I only missed a few… what did I miss, C.J.?"

"As part of a bipartisan outreach, Greg Millovich has joined with the office of the Vice President to investigate all avenues of addressing the Childcare crisis in America."

Toby blinked.

"Russell?" he almost laughed. "Bingo Bob brought Millovich across the aisle to try to co-opt Childcare?"

"Which would have been laughable, had you not told him to go jump in the Potomac, Toby." She sighed and moved as if to smack his head. She stopped though, and her hand sank. She looked around at the communications bullpen, and the staffers who were carefully not watching them.

"Toby, draft a statement, carefully clarifying our position. Not yours, the President's position, on VP Russell's efforts to address the issue of safe and affordable childcare for all American parents who require it. Get it to me and go home."

"You know I don't actually work for you, right?" He sort of sidled up to her. "I mean, you can't send me home, or to bed with no supper. You know that, right?"

She sighed. "Toby, I need you to do this, and then I need you to get your head on straight. With Josh gone and Joeys till getting up to speed, I need to be spending more time on big message and less on damage control. I can't do that while I'm worrying about you."

"You're a very powerful and compelling woman, C.J." He grinned, a flash of smile across his normally sour countenance. "You know this, yes?"

She smiled sadly. "You just say that because you know you can't have me, Tobus."

"Hope springs eternal," he muttered, heading towards his office. He'd have to call his former mother-in-law and check on Huck. He'd then have to write something for C.J. Something brief and pithy and suitably apologetic without actually saying he was sorry, because he wasn't. Not to Greg Millovich, or Bingo Bob. C.J.? Yeah, some.

She was a big girl. She could take it.


	3. Wednesday Night

W.W.

"Josh, stop shouting, I can hear you fine." Donna adjusted her floppy hat, trying to block out some of the rising sun. Nighttime in Washington made it just dawn in Gaza, and alabaster skin does not freckle, it just burns. She repositioned her phone a little farther from her ear.

"Sorry," Josh said loudly but more clearly over the cell. "I just said I've missed you too. So, what kind of trouble have you been stirring up there? You and what's-her-name, Nancy's girl?" She could hear his dimples in his voice.

"Not much trouble, no. At least, nothing that will require CJ spin to fix." She noticed that guy over by the door again. Tall, short hair, intense looking. She thought she'd seen him earlier chatting with Kate in the hotel bar, but she wasn't sure.

"So, Donna, about the house hunting? I found, well, there was one place, you see," Josh was rambling. He felt weird, standing in the empty kitchen, surrounded by title paperwork, trying to explain that he had bought a house.

"Great, I can't wait to see your list." Donna looked around as the CODEL prepared to head off to their cars. She saw he tall, dark haired man eying her coolly as she lowered her voice and blushed into the phone, "I miss you."

"Oh, yes. You too. I mean, I miss you, too." Josh ran his hand through his hair and stopped his pacing. "Listen, I saw this one house that was really different, and I don't know why, but I figured… Donna?"

"What? I'm losing you." Donna frowned as she entered the hotel breezeway. "Call you tomorrow?"

"I can't hear you Donna!" Josh knew that shouting into the cell was useless. Digital cells either have a signal or they don't, not like the old analogue phones. He shouted again, "Love you! Call me tomorrow."

Josh stood in the kitchen, and wondered if he could grab some things from the hotel and sleep in the new house. He had to make a list of all the things to be done before Donna could see it, starting with Astroturf removal and whitewashing the whole place. Normally he'd walk around thinking of things and calling them out. Donna would follow along behind him, recording, organizing and (frankly) improving his list. He'd have to manage without her for this one night.

"Where does she keep those note cards?" he wondered aloud.

W.W.

The Irishman nodded with a tight smile to Kate and Donna as they climbed into the big black Suburbans, so American. Everyone else used Land Rovers, or the new Toyota trucks that were fashionable throughout the Middle East as cheap paramilitary vehicles. But not the Americans. They brought their giant petrol-gulping SUVs with them even to a place as poor as Gaza.

He moved into position, and snapped a couple of pictures. The contrast, the two blonde women, so pale against the giant black trucks, made for a great composition. Over the years, he'd actually become quite good at photography, rather to his surprise. When he'd been scouting locations in London for the PIRA, he'd even won an award, back in '84, for the Harrods bomb pictures. Ironic, that's what it was.

As the vehicles rolled out, the Irishman reached down to his belt, where his cell phone stuck out amid all the meters and batteries and paraphernalia of his ostensible trade. He watched the lead truck roll past the gate, and counted softly under his breath.

"Two… Three… Four… and smile!" His thumb hit the speed dial on his phone.

Even though he knew it was coming, the explosion rocked him on his feet. He let it, not wanting to call attention to himself. He was careful not to be the first to run towards the burning cars, nor to be the last.

He started shooting pictures, a look of practiced grief and horror on his face.

"Might as well pay the bills," he thought, snapping a picture of a floppy hat, soaked with blood, flapping in the wind as smoke rose into the skies over Palestine.

W.W.

Sam Seaborn looked over his wineglass, empty for the last half hour, and finally smirked at his companion. He started to slide back into the jacket he had left folded over the chair.

"Joey, it's late. I appreciate the chance to catch up, but… it's late."

"You always did have a way with words, Sam," she said, trying not to wake her daughter, who was sleeping on a pallet in front of the sofa.

His rueful grin was interrupted by a strobe, a fire-alarm flash coming from a black box by Joey's phone. He could also hear the buzzing of the vibrating alarm pager she always wore, even as she jumped up to read the incoming text message.

The light stopped blinking when she turned on her text unit, but Sam noted her surprise as she tried to read the message. She fumbled for her pocket and emerged with a code card, which she swiped through the text unit, for all the world like a soccer mom paying for gas at the 7-11. Her shoulders went tight and she grabbed for her PDA, texting a message even as she read.

"Sam," she called out a little too loudly, "the TV, put on CNN."

He reached across the sleeping child, and turned on the television just in time to catch the end of the breaking news scroll.

"Americans Dead in Gaza Blast," read the white letters on a deep blue background.

"I need to go as soon as they get here for Samantha," Joey told him, still typing. He waited till she looked up, and caught her eye.

"I'll stay with her. You need to go."

She crinkled her brow. "You don't have to do that. I don't want to cause you any more trouble."

"No trouble," he said, taking his jacket back off and watching the news with half his attention, and the sleeping toddler with the other.

W.W.

Toby sat up suddenly, looking around. It was late, and quiet. Andi's mom had the twins, and his apartment was back to its old brooding silence. He must have nodded off, reading.

He was reading Dickens. It was a guilty pleasure, something he was careful to conceal because it didn't really fit his persona. The truth was, he loved Dickens. The Victorian grandeur of the prose, the wit, the rich language, he savored it all. "A Christmas Carol" was almost as good as pie, or a glass of smooth bourbon and a decent cigar.

He marked his place, and stood up, stretching the kinks out of his back and hips. It was then he noticed his pager, bouncing on the carpet. It must have vibrated off his desk, and that was what had woken him up from his dozing.

He called in.

"Signals room? This is Toby Ziegler."

"Flash traffic from DCOS, please return immediately. No further message."

He rubbed his thumb across his scalp, over his eye, and frowned.

"I'm on my way."

W.W.

The paramedic swept blonde hair out of the woman's face, and grimaced as much of her cheek and what must have been her right eye were revealed, a ruined mess of glass fragments and churned flesh.

"Miss, can you hear me? I need you to hold still, okay?" He checked her other eye, the good eye, and noted some response. Lucky for her, for now, she was in shock. He held her as they cut the door panel pinning her.

He slid her out carefully, and cradled her head as he waited for sound of the saw to fade.

"We've got another one! Another survivor, over here!"

A few meters away, a camera crew was taking pictures, maybe satellite television, of the wreckage. The paramedic did his best to shield the injured woman from their view as she was readied for transport.

"I think you've had enough for today already, don't you, Miss?" he asked her as she was lifted into the armored Israeli Defense Force ambulance.


	4. Thursday Morning

W.W. – Thursday Morning

"Okay, people, settle down. Here is what we know." Joey Lucas looked calm, professional. She was wearing a dark suit that really contrasted with the white silk of her blouse cuffs, and as she signed, the flashes of white and dark in the dimly lit press gallery were like signal lights between warships at sea. Kenny, in position slightly to the side, spoke with calm and reassurance that matched her crisp movements.

The assembled staff came to uneasy order, in the only room large enough to hold them all conveniently. Some had been crying, some looked angry. All of them had the preternatural brightness that comes from strong emotion too early in the morning. A sort of Brownian motion kept some of the staffers turning over and over near the large urns of coffee up from the White House Mess.

"A bomb went off as the CODEL pulled out of the hotel complex near Gaza, right around 6:30 local time. Earlier reports of a missile or aerial bomb have not been borne out by investigators on the scene."

Joey looked at each of them as this sank in. She needed to make sure the whole executive was sending the same message and telling the same story. She hoped that the President and Leo, down in the Sit Room, would have some idea of what that story exactly was very soon.

"The bomb went off under the front of the second vehicle of three, and threw it backward into the third vehicle. We have three confirmed casualties, including Admiral Fitzwallace and his aide, Commander Peter Mitchell. Also dead is Congressman Matthew Santos, of Texas. In critical condition are Representative Andrea Wyatt, of Maryland, and Donna Moss from the Presidential Council on International NGO Liaison Activities. They are both being airlifted to Ramstein Air Force Base in Germany."

"We need to stress, there have been no signs of coordinated action against other U.S. assets or personnel, and no group has yet claimed responsibility. The Israeli security services are on alert, and IDF forces are currently surrounding the compound of Chairman Farad. The President is in communication with the Israeli government and remains in touch with our people on the ground in Israel."

Joey wiped a drop of sweat from her brow with the back of her sleeve, and then shot a quick glance at Kenney. He nodded, and she continued.

"You all have assignments, and details we hoped would be relevant are in your green binders. Clear any changes with Will Bailey, C.J. or myself. Toby Ziegler," she paused, and shrugged, "Toby is on his way to Germany at the request of the President. We have a lot to do, and C.J. is going to need this room in about 45 seconds. Let's go, people."

As they broke up, she caught the attention of Will Bailey, who was speaking into one phone on his shoulder at the side of the room, while holding his cell in his other hand. She opened her hands, palms up, and broadly mouthed, "JOSH?"

Will shook his head slightly, eyes opaque behind his glasses in the dim light. He shrugged in frustration and went back to his calls. Joey turned to Kenney as they strode out towards the bullpen.

"Where the hell is Lyman?" she signed savagely as they walked.

"I didn't know it was my day to watch him. I left a message for Sam Seaborn," Kenney returned silently. "Maybe he'll reach him."

W.W.

Josh Lyman was asleep, sitting in the middle of the master bedroom, with note cards scattered all around him. He woke up, briefly, long enough to take off his shoes and check the time, around 5 AM. He had to squint to read the time on his watch in the pre-dawn light, as the battery in his cell seemed to have died during the night.

He grabbed another card, and scrawled, "More Cell Batt." There were fliers from a half dozen decorators, paint stores and home improvement superstores fanned out around him, but he was too tired to get up and turn on the ceiling light.

He looked around himself at the house, dark and still in the early morning. It needed work, but it would be a really great place to live, once Donna got back.

He smiled, and slumped back against the wall, and fell asleep, dreaming of new carpet, fresh paint, and Donna.

W.W.

The trauma surgeon stood aside as the ophthalmic surgeon leaned in to look at the patient's wounds first hand. She shook her head, and stepped back.

"You're right," Dr. Ross said, already stepping out of the trauma surgeon's way. "There isn't anything we can do with that. Go ahead and continue with primary wound care, and we'll worry about cosmetic reconstruction once she's better stabilized from the collapsed lung."

The trauma surgeon, Dr. Dodge, went back to work with a shrug.

"That's what we figured, but before we write off anybody's eye, we figured you'd want a peek." He continued with his previous task, removing glass shards from the tissues around what had been the patient's eye. There was a rapidly filling tray covered with small bloody fragments, many still with pieces of flesh or a few long blonde hairs adhering to them.

"We keep getting calls from Washington," Dodge went on conversationally, "so let's see if we can clean this young lady up, shall we?"

They settled in, knowing they had a lot of work to do over the next few hours.

W.W.

"I don't want Dora, I want Big Birt!" There was a girl sitting on Sam's lap, pouting. She was small and dark haired and beautiful, with tiny lips forming a perfect little "O" the angrier he got.

"Samantha, I haven't got Big Bird, I have Dora Explorer. I thought you liked Dora?" He was tired, and stressed, but at least the attention from the toddler on his lap was a distraction from news reports. Josh had not returned his call, either.

"You're mean. I hate you," Samantha said ungraciously, crossing her arms dramatically over her chest as she turned to watch Dora the Explorer on PBS Kids. In a few minutes, she was laughing and singing along as Dora and Boots tried to find their way to Dora's grandmother's house.

When his phone rang, he had to shift Samantha around, and she glared at him again. He smiled his best smile at her, and like most women, she relented. He looked at the caller ID and answered the phone.

"Hey, Ainsley, what are you doing up at this hour?" He was trying to keep his voice light.

"Hey, Sam." She sounded tired, with her accent stretching his name out into "Say-em ."

She went on. "I've been watching the news, and I couldn't get back to sleep. I keep thinking there should be something I should be doing."

"It's not any better here in D.C.," Sam admitted.

"What are you doing this morning? I thought you would still be at the hotel."

"Let me talk!" Samantha said suddenly. Sam sighed as the toddler shouted into the phone. "Hi! Happy Birtday! Hi! Love you bye!" At two and a half, nearly three, she really only had one telephone speech, suitable for all occasions.

"That," Sam said, shifting Samantha around to face the TV again, "Was Samantha Lucas. I was watching her for Joey till her nanny gets here, and she got held up."

There was a long silence. "So, you were there all night, and now you're what? Babysitting?" Sam winced at the coldness of her tone.

"You know what, Ainsley?" His mouth was a thin line but he kept his voice calm for Samantha's sake. "You know what, you're right. I'm babysitting. I'm helping out a friend, a friend you used to like I'll point out, because she's in a jam and needs my help. But you know what? I'm tired of being the bad guy here. I'm tired of being sorry, for something, for something I'm not sorry about."

"Well, Sam," Ainsley sputtered, but he went on, noticing as he did the van pulling up outside with the nanny.

"So you know what? I'm putting this behind me. If you want to really talk about this, I'll be back at the hotel in an hour or so. And if you want to go on making me feel like... like garbage," he went on, biting down on harsher language, "then you can reach me at the hotel when there is not a child present. Good bye, Ainsley."

With that, he hung up the phone and watched the nanny coming up the walk to the door.

He looked again at his phone.

"Josh, where are you?"

W.W.


	5. Thursday Afternoon

W.W. – Thursday afternoon

Toby Zigler sat on the plane, a military version of the Boeing 707, and listened to the poorly insulated whine of the engines. He was at least thirty minutes out from Ramstein Airforce Base in the Federal Republic of Germany, and perhaps another hour way from the military hospital.

"_Say yes,"_ he'd said. He'd been almost speechless, an unusual situation for him. His carefully crafted speech had been totally forgotten. _"Just, say yes."_

Andrea Wyatt, former councilwoman and party fundraiser from Silver Springs Maryland, had looked at him with an indulgent grin.

"_You have cream cheese on your lip,"_ she'd replied, tousling his remaining hair. She'd looked so warm and fine and perfect, with her hair a messy halo on the pillows, a hundred years ago.

"_That's not a yes,"_ he'd persisted. He'd tried not to frown, because she loved it so much when he did. Her own personal basset hound.

"_You actually got up and ate a bagel, then came back to propose?"_ She'd laughed, her breasts shaking under the sheet and one eye twinkling out from under the mass of auburn hair.

He'd shrugged.

"_If you say no, I might not feel like eating later."_

"_And if I say yes?"_

He'd grinned, a wolfish grin, the rare blinding transforming smile that always curled her toes when he smiled it at her that way.

"_If you say yes, neither one of us will be eating for a while."_

She had reached out and flicked a crumb of sweet cream cheese off his lip and touched it daintily to the tip of her pink tongue.

"_I like the way you think, Zigler. I love the way you write, and I especially love the way you propose."_

They had missed breakfast entirely.

Toby Zigler sat on the plane, a military version of the Boeing 707, and listened to the poorly insulated whine of the engines. He was at least fifteen minutes out from Ramstein Airforce Base in the Federal Republic of Germany, and perhaps another hour way from the military hospital.

"_Say yes,"_ he'd said. He'd been almost speechless, an unusual situation for him. His carefully crafted speech had been totally forgotten. _"Just, say yes."_

W.W.

"Donna?" Josh stumbled awake, then frowned at his surroundings. It was bright daylight, and he was sitting against the wall in the new house, surrounded by contracts and notes and files. He couldn't remember the last time he had slept so late, so soundly. It must have been Rosslyn, the drugged sleeps after surgery that kept clawing him down when he tried to wake. That memory must explain the sour taste in his mouth.

The pounding, however, was not in his head, but rather on his front door. He pulled himself together and staggered down the hall to the foyer. He opened the door to a surprise.

"Joshua, you have your mother in hysterics."

Avi Maxwell stood on his porch, hat in hand. The Chrysler 300 that was his pride and joy idled smoothly in the drive, door still ajar. His red suspenders cut across his broad shoulders like county lines on a precinct map.

"Uh, good morning?"

"Afternoon." Maxwell looked past him. "No phone, you don't have the television?"

"Power is on but no cable, I just have the keys on a handshake while the… Avi, what are you doing here?"

Maxwell put a big, snowy-haired hand on Josh's shoulder.

"It's Donna. In Israel, there was an attack." His face was stone, his eyes filled with unreadable emotion.

"An attack on what?" Josh stood, blinking in the sunlight at the old man on his porch. "I don't understand."

He shrugged off Avi's hand and reached for his phone, staring without seeing at the blank screen. "I don't… she was supposed to call. I don't understand."

Avi shrugged his shoulders and gestured towards the running car.

"Come with me. You can listen to the radio, and I'll take you wherever you need to go."

"I, yeah, thanks." Josh started to walk out, then looked back at the door in confusion. "I don't even have keys yet. They're sending contracts over today."

"Son, a wise man will walk away from his luggage many times, and maybe his home if need be. You want to be in the car."

Josh nodded, and clapped a hand on the old man's arm. "Thanks."

When the realtor arrived an hour later, the front door was open, and the office floor was covered in note cards, but there was no sign of her client. If it were not for specific instructions from her boss, she would have thrown everything out and put the for-sale sign back out. Instead, she straightened a few things, placed some paperwork in a conspicuous location, locked up, and left the key under the mat. On the way back to the office, she listened to news from around the world, none of it good.

W.W.

"They have the bomb maker." Nancy McNally looked across the table at Leo and the President.

"But not the one who gave the order," sighed the President, a cigarette forgotten in his hand. "Not the one who said, 'These settlements are starting to chap my ass, let's kill some Americans.' I swear, I'm tired of dealing with middlemen."

Leo nodded. "The problem with the middle east, Mr. President, is they're all middle men. No one steps up, no one sticks his head up high enough to be crowned or to be cut off."

"So what do we do, we let them kill Fitz, we let them kill our people, and we spank them in the UN? Then trade sanctions? Fabulous. If only they had an Olympics we could boycott it would be the trifecta."

"They have the bomb maker," Nancy repeated quietly.

The President stood up and stubbed out his cigarette. "Tell Mossad we want these guys talking, not serving as an example to others."

On the other side of the world, Israeli soldiers received word from their superiors, and life became very uncomfortable for two Palestinians and an Egyptian in a loft in the West Bank.

W.W.

As he sat by the bed of his ex-wife, holding her hand and watching her sleep, Toby looked across the hall. The other American was there, also in intensive care, also covered in bandages. A surgeon was outside, talking to a nurse about care for the woman's eye.

Making sure that Andi was sleeping, Toby carefully placed her hand back at her side, and slipped out of the room. He went to the glass partition separating the hallway from the other American's room. He saw the blonde hair, the bloody bandage. His stomach tightened.

"She's a mess." The voice was soft, tired. Familiar. Toby turned.

Donna Moss, with a bandaid over the bridge of her node and two black eyes like a raccoon, was standing there, a paper cup of coffee in her hands, wathicng the other American woman sleep.

"Donna," Toby said. He stared, unable to process what he was seeing.

"Good to see you, Toby. Andi seems to be doing okay, now they set her leg. I'm sure she's glad you're here."

"Donna?" Toby pulled her to him, almost dousing them both with coffee before she could set aside her cup. He clung to her, her sore ribs creaking from the embrace.

"Toby," she said. "Toby, air!"

He released her, all awkward distance and sniffles. Then he frowned almost comically, and jerked his eyes back to the blonde on the bed. "Donna, who is that?"

"Kate Harper. Says she's with Commerce, but she's one of Nancy McNally's, I think."

Toby nodded slowly. "You need to call home. Quickly."

"I've been calling Josh but it goes to voicemail. I imagine there are some people worried about me."

"You think? Call Leo, would you? Oh, and some one should tell Nancy about her girl here."

Donna nodded, and watched Toby go back to Andi's bedside before she walked back down to her own room to call home. She'd been pretty banged up, and was sore all over, but there wasn't anything to be concerned about. She hoped no one was worried.


	6. Saturday

W.W. – Saturday morning.

Kenny's hands ached from translating. His back hurt. His mouth was dry. He needed clean socks and underwear, and to burn his shirt, as it was past laundering. He blinked and startled, then sat up with a jerk.

There was a Styrofoam carton of salad in front of him, and a glass of something flat and no longer iced, sweating in a soggy paper cup. He blinked hard and looked, owlishly, across the table.

Margaret had bags under the rings under the circles under her eyes, and one tendril of red hair shot straight out from the left side of her head. Aside from that however, she looked rather good. Almost radiant. It was completely unfair.

"You have a deal with the devil, " he muttered.

"No, just Leo," she grinned a small tight grin, "but the comparison has been made before."

"Was I asleep long?" He yawned and tried to discretely check his breath. Nasty.

"Not long enough." She stood and folded half a sandwich into a napkin, which disappeared into her purse. "Let's take another round of the bullpen and the Signals office, then we can probably head home for a few hours."

He showed her a slightly less tired version of his own grin. "Is that an invitation?" Before she could protest, he waved her off with a shrug. "Not that I have energy for anything at this point but bed."

"Is _that_ an invitation?" she replied, leaving him chuckling as she headed back to Leo's office to check for critical work before heading home. Despite herself, she smiled. Kenny Thurman was good for Margaret. They made each other smile.

W.W.

Josh stood, jaw muscles working tightly, staring at the gate. The plane had been on the ground for five minutes, at least five minutes. What the hell was taking so long?

He'd been in DC since early that morning, almost five hours, and he'd been waiting for Donna's flight back from Germany for most of that time. It seemed like longer. It seemed like years.

"I think they're coming," Sam said, nodding towards the windows that showed glimpses of the arrivals lounge.

"If you say that again, Sam, I will personally choke the life from your body and leave you in a shallow grave by the metro line." Josh's voice was soft and tight, very controlled.

"No, look."

They both saw it then, a flash of gold and dark blue. Donna, wrapped in a dark Air Force coat she had picked up along the trip, was coming through the security gate. Less than two steps past the guards, and she was in Josh's arms.

"Hello," she said simply.

"Hello," he said, putting her at arms' length to regard her critically, then crushing her to him again in a smothering embrace.

"Missed you," she offered, trying not to notice the way the hugs were grating her bruised ribs. Some things are ore important than pain.

"You too," he said, face buried in her hair, oblivious to the crowd of people who had to navigate around them to get off the plane and towards the baggage claim.

"Do we need to get your bags?" Sam asked, not wanting to intrude but also wanting to make sure she knew he was there too.

"Hey, Sam!" She made a long arm and dragged him into her hug with Josh, rather than end that hug and start another. "No bags. They blew them up."

Josh released her slightly and stood, hands on his hips, and scowl on his face.

"They blew up your bags. Those… those bastards."

She shrugged. They began to head out towards Sam's car. "Better the bags than me. Let's go home… oh. Well, let's go to the hotel."

"The hotel." Josh stopped again, a stricken look on his face.

"Not to worry," Sam jumped in quickly. "We have you set up at the St. Regis. Will Bailey got it all set before they all left for Camp David."

Too exhausted to comment more, Josh and Donna followed Sam to his car and let him fill the time with carefree gossip from California as they drove back into the city.

W.W. – Saturday night

"Josh!" Donna was sitting upright, covered in a sheet and wearing a U of Wisconsin sweatshirt. She was drenched in sweat, and her eyes were wide, the white shining in the dim hotel room.

"I'm here." He touched her arms gently, and she started at his touch. His voice was low and smooth as he continued. "Right here. You're in the hotel in DC. You were sleeping."

"I was," she paused and took a deep, shuddering breath. "I was, I guess I was dreaming. I didn't know where I was. Sorry."

"You don't have to be sorry. Take a breath, and try to stay calm." He knew from experience how little good those words would do, but there wasn't anything better.

"I don't know what's wrong with me," she said, and she made a sour face he recognized.

"Take a sip of water," he urged, holding out a cup. "That taste in your mouth is from the adrenaline. It'll pass."

"I'm sorry," she said again.

"It's okay. The air conditioner was on, and when it kicked off I guess you noticed the change. That's when you woke up."

"Great, I'm afraid of quiet now?" She leaned on him. "I'm glad you're here. I missed you."

"You too, kid," he kissed the top of her head and held her close as she started breathing more evenly. At some point, she slept, but he still held her, feeling her breath against his chest and listening to the small sounds of the woman he loved.

W.W.

Sam blinked at the light from the hall, his normally perfect hair ruffled and his jaw blue with stubble. He blinked a few more times, then lowered his gaze, then lowered it some more. She wasn't wearing her heels.

"I brought you some muffins," the small blonde woman said, her southern drawl dragging out the word "muhhhh-fins." She held a bakery bag in both hands, vaguely like a squirrel holding a prize acorn.

"It's 3 in the morning," Sam said gruffly, stepping aside after a long moment to let her into the room.

"It's only midnight for me," she said softly. "I didn't want to call. I was afraid you wouldn't talk to me."

"I'll always talk to you, Ainsley. You know that." He sat heavily on the edge of the bed, and scrubbed his hands hard over his face to wake up.

She looked around, and then sat, perched really, on the edge of the desk across from the bed. She sighed.

"What's wrong with us, Sam?"

He groaned and lay back on the bed, staring at the textured ceiling.

"No, I mean it," she went on. "We fight all the time, and we say stupid things to hurt each other. You're always on the road, or at the office. I'm always in my office at home when you're there. We're not lovers, we're roommates. The only time we really interact is to be mean to each other."

"This could have waited." He closed his eyes. "I'll be back in a few days, maybe a week. Just let me get Donna and Josh back on track and help cover for Toby this week until Andi gets home."

"I didn't want to wait," she admitted. "I miss you."

He sat up, and looked at her sideways, trying to decipher her response. "I'm sorry?"

"I've missed you. I spent a lot of time telling myself that you're the one who started this or that you're the one whose fault it is, but I don't care about that. Friends of ours were hurt; people we know were killed. None of the other stuff matters. What matters is that I miss you and I want to be with you." He realized that though her voice was steady and reasonable, tears were dripping off her cheek onto the floor.

"How do you just undo everything?" He stood up, seized with nervous energy, but then he seemed to ttower over her and he felt her shrink back. Instead, he turned and sat next to her on the desk, letting her lean into him. "How do we go back?"

"We can't, Sam," she said frankly. "But we can go on. We can try to be better, be our real selves and not just settle for the way things have been."

She paused and looked down, not meeting his eyes.

"Do you still love me, Sam?"

"You know I do." He stared hard, and took a moment. "You _do_ know I do, don't you?"

"I wasn't sure." She wiped her face with the back of her hand.

"Well, I do." He lifted her face, and slowly kissed her. After a moment, he broke the kiss and just held her, forehead to forehead, feeling the closeness of her.

"Let's go to bed, Sam. It's late. Or it's early. Either way, we can talk more in the morning, and after that. For now, let's just go to bed, and you can hold me and I can be held and we can just start there."

"I like your plan." He sat up and looked back at the desk. "Oh. I think I crushed my muffins."

She was pulling her sweater over her head, revealing a creamy chemise that slithered silkily back down over her body as the sweater pulled free. She skipped off her slacks. In a moment, she stood wearing only the cream silk and a bright-eyed smile. She held out her hand to him and turned towards the bed.

"That's okay," she admitted, nodding towards the muffin bag. "I got nervous on the ride over and I sort of ate them."

He laughed, and moved next to her on the bed. "So, you came to patch things up by blaming me for our problems, and then leaving me nothing to eat?"

"I wouldn't say nothing," she drawled, slipping the silk shift over her head and letting it fall to the floor. "How hungry are you, exactly?"

"Starving." He turned off the light, and despite the late hour, he did not immediately fall asleep.


	7. Sunday

W.W. – Sunday morning

Leo McGarry sat, starting out the window at a light rain falling over Camp David. The world was wet and gray, with all the colors washed out and the light a viscous haze in the trees. The world was not black and white, today, but gray in all its dull wonder.

He looked back at the briefing document in front of him, an assessment of Israeli intelligence assets. He couldn't focus. The President had been volatile, swinging from wrathful intensity to overcautious intellectualism, and Leo had been the one steering him to a consistent course. They'd butted heads more than a few times since the Gaza bombings. It was starting to take its toll.

He looked out the window again, and he felt his chest tighten. The gray haze wasn't just outside his window; it was over everything like a grimy curtain. He reached into his pocket and took out a small box. The nitro tablet dissolved under his tongue, and he felt the familiar headache and dizziness.

He lowered his head, and let the medicine speed to his heart. He tried to stay calm and to breathe deeply, but he was panting from the pain for a few minutes. He got another tablet ready just in case, but the feeling subsided. If only that was the end of it, he thought

He reached for his phone.

"Hey, Tim," he said sadly, "I need the doctor in here, and let him know I just took a nitro. No, I'm doing okay, so let's try to avoid a circus. Yeah." He hung up, and sat for a minute. He could already hear the security detail moving through the cabins, alerting the President and the medical staff. He thought about taking the other pill, but the pain in his chest had reduced to a dull ache so he just held the tablet in one hand as he closed the security briefing with the other.

He looked once more out the window as the head of the protection detail unlocked his door with the master key. The young Navy doctor assigned to the President was the first through the door.

"Mr. McGarry, I understand you've had to take nitroglycerine?"

"Yes, a few minutes ago."

"How many doses?"

"Just one. I'm feeling better."

"Well, we both know that can mean the trouble's over or it can just mean the medicine's working. We need to get some imaging so that we can see if you need thrombolytics, alright? We're going to run you back down to DC, Mr. McGarry."

The doctor was nodding at his patient's pulse and general alertness, but he was worried about Leo's pallor and shallow breathing. He decided to give Leo supplemental oxygen as soon as they were on the chopper back to the capital.

The head of he security detail, Tim O'Shields, carefully gathered up the briefing folders. He checked briefly to make sure they were all marked classified before sending them back to secure storage, at least until the NSA could collect them. The titles included "Casebook Sonic" and "Proliferation Models: Israel." Definitely secure stuff. He took the last briefing paper, a list of known Israeli operatives from "Arkin, Rahib" to "Maxwell, Avi."

He took the sheet, returned it to the Casebook Sonic file, and had it placed in the security safe until the new NSA staffer could retrieve and re-file it. His work done, O'Shields went on with the work of securing everyone at Camp David, American, Israeli and Palestinian, except of course for the President, a task that fell to Ron Butterfield and his extensive team.

W.W. – Sunday afternoon

Josh answered the phone as quietly as he could, stepping into the bathroom of the hotel room. Donna had not fallen soundly asleep until almost dawn, and despite her protests of health earlier, he could tell she was still physically sore as well as mentally stressed.

"Hey, Toby." Josh caught his reflection in the mirror, all wild hair and red eyes. "How's Andi doing?"

"She," Toby paused and sighed, and for a moment Josh felt his heart slowing, felt time stretching out with dread, but just as quickly Toby's scratchy voice resumed. "She seems to be improving. She listened to the twins on the phone."

"That's great. When Donna wakes up I'll make sure she knows."

"Don't wait, Josh." Toby's habit, of accenting the second to last word in a sentence when excited or passionate, turned the sentence into a command. "Don't _wait_, Josh."

"Well, she had a rough night, but as soon as she wakes up…"

Toby cut in again. "That's not what I mean. I look at Andi, lying in the bed, and she has three little bumps on her arm, Josh. Her right arm, little bumps down one side. It's fragments of glass that got blown right under the skin by the bomb, Josh." Toby's voice, so implacable, shook for a moment and Josh realized that Toby must be crying, standing in the hospital hallway in Germany.

"They'll take good care of her, Toby." It was something to say.

"They say they'll worry about them after they build up more antibiotics in her system, and something about liver enzymes. But even after they do that, and they, they take out those three little pieces of glass, she'll still be here, in a hospital. The mother of my children is my ex wife, Josh, and she's a thousand miles from home, and from them, and even when she's well, she'll be a thousand miles from me, even when we're in the same room. Don't wait, Josh."

Toby hung up, and Josh looked in the mirror for a long while afterwards.

W.W. – Sunday night

Charlie Young closed the door to the kitchen, and quietly walked to the young woman sitting on the sofa by the fire. He handed her a cup of tea, and she scooted her legs over to make room for him rather than have him sit in the chair across from her.

She took the steaming cup, and held it a moment, the warmth moving into her hands.

"I worry about him, Charlie," she sighed, in that breathy way she had that made her so attractive to him, so wise and weary yet still sounding of the carefree girl she had so recently been.

"Zoey, the doctors say Leo is doing fine, that they are on top of this thing. We have to give it time." He took a sip of his own tea, and watched her as she stared into the fire.

"I didn't mean Leo. Of course, I worry about him, too." She went to take a sip of her tea, and paused, looking carefully down into the cup and sniffing it for a moment.

"I made the tea myself. I don't think you have to worry." He smiled at her teasingly, which was not the right response.

She put the cup down suddenly, and leaned against him. Her legs were drawn up under a blanket and she hugged her knees with both arms. She made herself very small and folded against him, hair falling down to cover her eyes.

"You don't understand. No one does." He didn't need to see her face to know she was back at the nightclub, drinking the spiked cocktail from her ill-chosen lover. He would do anything to bring her back from there, if he knew how. She spoke again, her words coming as much through his chest as to his ears as she pressed against him.

"You never get over wondering. You go on. You never relax, and never forget. You sort of scab over the wounded places, and you go on. But that's all. You don't get better, you get used to it. You go on."

He tightened his arm around her, and kissed her hair with a casual compassion and ease that would have shocked them both just months before. He sat a moment, letting her feel him, being there, for her.

"It's over, Zoey. I promise."

She laughed sadly.

"There's no such thing as closure," she whispered, possibly to herself.

The fire crackled, and burned low. The tea grew cold.

At a cabin in Camp David, in a hospital bed in Germany, and in a Washington hotel, three women nursed their hurts and three men sat over them, chasing the myth of closure.

-fin-

_Author's Note: _

_This Ends "The Myth of Closure." There are many stories here left to tell, but they are not this story, and I owe it to all who followed my series to end the story where it ends, not where we wish it would take us. I firmly believe in the title of this story, the myth that we move on, that there are real endings. If there are new beginnings I will see you there, but here ends the Josh and Donna stories of "Magic Kingdom Come," "Code 208" and "The Myth of Closure." _

_Bless you all and keep you,_

_ReverendKilljoy_.


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